Heaven's Heard Me Calling
by FangIsFexcellent
Summary: There are some things that Max doesn't like to talk about. Ever. Which makes Fang telling her everything a whole lot harder...M for mature themes and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys :P **

**So this fic idea has been swirling around my head for a LONG LONG LONG time now. (Just ask Blacks and Zombie. I've been bugging them for AGES about this thing. It's definitely the most large-scale fic I've ever done. And I hope I do it justice. **

**I want you to give this a chance. I know, everyone's all "I HATE DYLAN..." but really, guys, it's not his fault. Don't hate. I'm not. (as you will soon see) **

**So without further ado, the first chapter. :D I am proud. **

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><p><em>Soaked to the bone<br>__Sink like a stone  
><em>_It's not the first time, it's not the worst crime  
><em>_Your soul will be okay  
><em>_-Adam Lambert, "Soaked."_

How did I get here?

Well, how did any of us ever get anywhere? We flew. Obviously.

It's the feathered life, and yeah, while I _flew _into the pouring rain at about five thousand feet, that doesn't answer my question. _How, _as in, why? What were the circumstances of me getting up here and getting my ass kicked by _water, _of all things?

Well, first there was a fight, and then a silence, and then another. Usually the flock's definition of "fight" goes somewhere along the lines of _"The situation where you have to use various parts of your body to defend against things that are way stronger than you and trying to kill you and the only people you've ever loved mercilessly." _

_..._Surprisingly, my fight tonight hadn't been like that.

And you know what I've found out? Words can be almost as hurtful as physical pain. It still doesn't compare to getting, say, shot or something, but bumps and bruises? Yeah, more along those lines. It doesn't feel good, let me tell you.

You're probably wondering what I'm saying, and why I'm going all in-depth on words. Let's just get on with it, shall we?

Fang and Max. It's been kind of one name for a while now. _Fangandmax. _Lately, though, it doesn't seem one name as two, with a word separating them. That's kind of signifying how bad my relationship with Max is going.

Max has never liked to talk about the past. I mean, I get it to a point _("Hey! Fang! Remember that one time when you were six and the whitecoats gave you a pelvic exam? And you essentially got raped by doctors?" "Ha, ha, I totally remember that!") _but there's some things that she just doesn't bring up, under any circumstances, ever. Nada, zip, zing, keep your lips shut or you're bound to end up with them bleeding.

And, in retrospect, I guess it was a bad idea to bring one up.

It shouldn't be something she doesn't want to talk about, but it is. Dylan. Remember him? The one that Max kicked out of the flock about a year ago? Yeah, that Dylan. I wasn't even really confronting her about it—I was just wondering out loud when I said "Hey, wonder what Dylan's up to these days." Because, you know, I was curious. Wouldn't you be if you knew a guy who constantly annoyed you for a year, went straight off the radar for another? I wasn't even really expecting a response, but Max gave me one. Hoo boy, did Max give me one.

Here are the highlights, sports fans:

"_Why do you care about Dylan?" _

"_I can't believe you would just bring him up like that! He's gone, Fang. Whatever." _

"_Fang, seriously, I don't care what happened to him." _

"_I DID THE RIGHT THING, FANG. DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT." _

"_FUCK YOU, I AM NOT PMSING." _

And there you go.

For the record, I wasn't looking at her like anything. Hello? Visually unemotional Fang.

Looking back, it was probably also a bad idea to ask her if she was, indeed, PMSing. It's a natural guy response, though.

Honestly, I really don't care about what happened to Dylan either, but I was _curious. _But, you know what they say, curiosity ignited the rage of a mutant bird kid and nearly killed her boyfriend.

Or something like that.

Anyway, there's the story of how I ended up with my hair plastered to my head from the rain and my feathers getting ripped out from the wind as I flew. Not running away. Just thinking.

Which is what I'm still doing now.

It's freezing, and not enjoyable in the slightest, but it's numbing. And I sort of need to be numb right now. I'm confused about Max, and kind of angry at her but at the same time kind of not because it's really hard for me to get angry at her. But I know one thing—that I don't want to go back to the flock tonight. I don't want Iggy's silent, unseeing stares that still seem to penetrate me, or Gazzy's awkward words of comfort, or Nudge, who usually sides with Max, or Angel, who can read my mind and tell me everything I'm feeling, which makes everything so much worse.

Luckily, for my last birthday Dr. Martinez got me a wallet, and it is now stuffed with all the cash I could find in my room . I pocketed it right before I opened the window and left for the night. There's a town somewhere near here, but for right now I just want to fly around and try to calm myself down. Because I can almost feel it rolling off me, the waves of anger and indignation. And I know that sounds lame, but God, I'm so ticked off at Max for just blowing up at me.

We're supposed to be the Golden Couple or something, and it's so fucking annoying that sometimes I consider the idea that I don't love her anymore.

Then I always tell myself I'm being stupid and just turn on an iPod or something.

When I fly above the clouds, the rain stops and the sky is peaceful, the moon shining lazily without clouds to block it from vision. It's kind of trancelike when you're up here, like you're the only person in the world, just flying up to heaven alone.

That's also kind of a depressing thought, and my wings are getting tired, so I dip back down and squint through my wet hair, looking for lights.

It takes a few more minutes of flying before I see pinpricks of white and yellow and red, and I shift my wings the tiniest bit to angle myself straight for the town.

It's one of those tiny little backwoods places, with a couple of bars, a school, two or three bad hotels, and then a residential area. Not the most charming of villages, but hey, I'm wet and it'll have to do.

I touch down outside the town and opt to walk into it, though it's so dark by this time, and raining so loudly, that if I wanted to, I could probably fly down onto the roof of someone's house without anyone batting an eye. However, better safe than sorry, as usual in our life, so by the time I reach one of the motels in the area, any area of my person that hasn't previously been completely soaked now is, I'm cold, and kind of miserable. The hotel boasts heat, AC, and wifi. Too bad I forgot to bring a computer.

I get a suspicious look from the woman at the front desk of the little motel—she obviously isn't used to seeing teenagers with damp clothes askew asking for a room. When I slide the cash across the table, though, she seems to accept me a whole lot better, and gives me a style of key card that I'm pretty sure hasn't been used since the seventies, with holes punched in it to represent my room number, which is on the second floor.

It's one of those places where all the rooms face the outside, with a long stretch of balcony shared by all the little sections. I go back outside, climb dirty stone steps, and open room 223 with my out-of-date card.

Then I cringe.

I can name a lot of places I've been that are worse than this hotel room (dog crate, dungeon, back of a van, with hands duct-taped and robots all around—need I go on?), but it's pretty bad. Ugly floral bedspreads, carpet specially designed to not show all but the grossest stains, of which I see several. The sink isn't even in the bathroom—it's tucked into a corner near the door to a room that can't be more than four by six, which contains a cracked toilet and a shower with lime growing all over the faucets.

The towels are clean, though, and I grab one to dry my hair, peeling off my wet shoes when I'm done. My hair is sticking up in every direction. My socks, thankfully, have somehow escaped the brutality of rain. I keep them on, not wanting to step on the carpet. It's not that I'm squeamish, I'd just prefer not to gather communicable diseases by carpeting, thanks.

And now I'm bored.

Sitting on the bed, I rifle through the drawers in the nightstand after turning on the little lamp. There's travel guides _(Welcome to Colorado!), _a little notepad with the hotel logo at the top, a cheap pen, a phone book, and a Bible.

I've never opened a Bible before, except for when we were trying to code-crack in Washington DC, and even then I didn't really read it. I was just looking for words, as fast as possible, since it was exceedingly boring.

I flip to a random page and trace a finger down the page, skimming words as I go. Of course, I open to an extremely lovely passage. _If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them._

Psh. Haters.

I look at the clock. It's 11:11. I feel like I should make a wish, but the words stick in my throat and I can't seem to say _I wish that Max and I will make up. _So I just strip down to my boxers, drape my wet clothes over a chair, and fall asleep without looking at the sheets before I turn off the lights. God knows what's been on them. I don't really want to know, thanks.

I fall asleep quickly—flying for as long as I have been really saps your energy, especially when the wind is moving against you, which it was, and the rain is moving down on you, which it also was.

I never dream much. When I do dream, it's just random flashes, combinations of horrors from childhood and random things that don't make any sense, like penguins or hobbits. I never wake up to remember any of them.

So here I am, not dreaming, and suddenly I shoot upright in bed, clutching the covers in fists and nearly hitting my head against the bedpost. Why? Because in the room to the left of mine, I hear someone being tortured. Another thing the hotel apparently boasts; paper-thin walls.

"Oh, God," a man's voice groans, sounding like he's in pain. "God, no, yes, _fuck!" _

Oh.

I try to go back to sleep after that lovely intervention, but no, it doesn't work, what with the sex noises floating across the room, which are getting rather annoying. If their room is anything like mine, then it's not the most romantic of atmospheres. And yet they really seem to be going at it, though it's only that one man's voice that can be heard.

Now, what happens after this is probably one of the dumbest things I've done, ever. In my half-asleep, post-pissed-off state, I go over and bang on the wall. "Keep it down!" I yell.

Like I said, dumb. Because in the next ten seconds, the noises stop, then come back as footsteps, coming in a direction I don't want them to go (i.e., toward the door of my hotel room). Then there's banging on my own door.

Shit.

I don't plan on opening it—just letting the person rap on it until they get bored and go back to the room.

But they don't stop, and it's getting even more annoying than the noises. So in another bad choice in a string of bad choices, I go over and fling open the door, ready to pop one to whatever idiot has been stupid enough to disturb Fang's sleep. I don't look through the peephole before I undo the chain and toss the door to the wall. I step out to meet whoever's responsible for pissing me off.

However, out of anyone I would have expected, this person is not even at the bottom of a list. I'm thinking I'm going to see some angry muscle dude bigger than I am that's ticked at me for interrupting his sexytimez. Maybe even his big-ass wife with a mole and fists the size of small hams.

Nope. It's not a man, exactly. And it's not a woman.

It's a _boy. _

And it gets weirder. It's a boy I _know. _

Behind him is the muscle-dude I was expecting to see, a mad scowl on his flat face and his pants held up with huge hands.

"Holy shit," Dylan says, sounding like the wind's been knocked out of him.

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><p><strong>Yes. I know. Review and tell me what you think? <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Um. Well. About this fic.**

**I have the first four chapters written, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten a chance to publish them, but here's the second one? Don't kill me? **

**I'd like to finish this fic. I love the idea, and I have it all planned out. **

**But I need your feedback, so be a good person and leave a review? *hopeful face* **

**~Fex/Angel**

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><p>For a few seconds, I just stand there staring. If my life was a bad sitcom, a cricket sound effect would play about now. I can't believe anything that has just happened, and my brain's not working too well. So let's create a flow chart. Imagine the flowy-ness.<p>

1. I hear sex from other side of wall. Said sex annoys me greatly.

2. I bang on wall.

3. Sex stops, footsteps.

4. Open door, see Dylan. See muscle-dude behind him.

Conclusions from chart:

Dylan was having sex.

With muscle-dude.

A man.

Dylan is gay.

Fang's head is about to explode.

I think I say something along the lines of "What the fu..." and trail off before I can even finish it.

"Fuck this," Muscle-dude says, storming off down the stairs and away to a car.

Dylan stares after him emotionlessly, but as soon as he's gone, he's all over me. No, not like _that, _but his hands are around my neck and suddenly I'm up against the wall of my own hotel room.

"You idiot," he hisses. "You just cost me a hundred bucks and a ride back to civilization."

Well, what are you supposed to say to that? I try to speak, but Dylan just keeps going, his face inches from mine.

"First you and your little flock degrade me and mess up my first life, and now you're back and messing up my new life, too? Haven't you done enough? Where's the flock now?"

"I'm here alone, for you information," I spit back, shoving him hard, because in his haste he's forgotten the essential rule of pinning, whether it be against a floor, column, or wall; always control their arms. "And I'm not the one that screwed up your miserable little life, thanks. Don't shoot your blame at me when I didn't do anything. And how the hell did I lose you a hundred bucks?"

"Forget about that." Dylan flips back onto his feet. "What the hell are you doing here alone?"

"I ditched out for a night. Why do you care?"

Dylan suddenly doesn't look so murderous. He looks surprised. "Isn't Max always with you?"

"I don't want to talk about her." I don't. And I don't actually want to say that, but in my still-sleep-hazed state, it just slips out.

Dylan raises one of his eyebrows which I now realize are meticulously plucked. "Interesting," he says, then flops back down on the bed. "You owe me a place to crash for the night and about a hundred bucks."

"I don't have a hundred bucks."

"Eh, I'll waive that if you don't tell the flock what you've seen tonight." Dylan stretches lazily across the pillows, arms behind his head. His t-shirt sleeves are ripped off, giving him a somewhat rugged appearance. There's a stain on the front of his pants, and I don't linger on that too much.

"Why?" I mean, I had been planning to tell at least Iggy. He'd get a kick out of it. Then maybe make food for me.

Dylan's mood has changed completely. He's lounging around, looking up at me with blue eyes like we've just met on the street or something, and everything's completely normal. "They'd think it was so pathetic," he says, rolling his eyes. "I mean, trying to find my new perfect half in such a crude manner. In truth, that's not the only reason I do it. There's the money. Usually some free food ends up being part of the deal, and all I have to do is—"

"Stop!" I can't help myself. I don't want to hear any more about what Dylan does for his money, because his occupation, from everything he's been saying, could be clear to any idiot off the roads. Dylan's turned into a hustler, and a gay one at that. Though he doesn't look very gay. No gel in his blonde hair. No eyeliner. Then I realize I'm being stereotypical, and try to stop thinking.

"Why?"

"I just...I don't want to hear it."

I expect Dylan to be at least a little offended at that, but he just laughs a little. "Eh, you're not the first one. Delicate subject. Anyway, can I crash here?"

"Um...sure."

Dylan makes no move to get off the bed, so I slump down onto the couch. "I'm going to sleep," I tell him, because I'm still tired as hell from all my flying.

"Cool."

Dylan reaches over and turns off the lights. Darkness usually makes me uncomfortable, but for some reason tonight it doesn't seem too bad. I'm just about to drift off, when...

"You and Max still together?"

When I open my eyes, they've adjusted to the blackness, and I can see Dylan lying with his eyes open and his arms crossed like a pretzel behind his head. He's still on his back, hasn't taken off his shoes or made any move to get under the still-mussed bedspread.

I consider lying, then don't. It'll just get sticky later. Plus saying "yes" just feels wrong. "I don't know."

"Such a vague answer," Dylan muses. "Clarify?"

I don't do clarify. I do "answer in as few words as possible."

"I don't know," I say again. The words feel funny in my mouth. "We had a fight."

Dylan makes a funny noise in his throat, but doesn't push me further.

Eventually, I drift off to sleep.

When I wake up in the morning, Dylan's gone.

Guess it could have been a dream, but it didn't really seem like one. So I just put my shoes back on and fly back to the flock .The rain's stopped, and the sun is now in full force, hurting my eyes. I wish I'd stolen Iggy's knockoff Aviators to wear before I left.

Max's eyes are red-rimmed and there are dark circles under them. I don't comment, just give her a look that I hope transmits _"I'm sorry." _She nods, smiling just a little, and goes back to putting a Band-Aid on Gazzy, who has, in my absence, somehow managed to blow up several large boulders with Iggy. The explosion was "wicked cool," he tells me, but the shrapnel "hurt like hell."

Max tells him off for swearing.

"You do it all the time."

Max rolls her eyes and doesn't say anything, securing the bandage and clapping the Gasman on the shoulder. "And what have we learned today?" she asks him in a mock-stern voice.

"Watching rocks explode is fun..." Gazzy starts. Max gives him a Look, and he changes directions. "...but from now on we should do it from a safe distance."

I laugh softly. Max gives a smile.

Everything's okay again. Iggy makes a lunch of beef stew, which is heavenly, and we do flocky things for the rest of the day. Nudge wants me to help her with her newest art project, knitting, which I flatly refuse. Iggy and Gazzy hole up in Iggy's room, no doubt planning out the next great bomb plan. They should go in the business or something. I bet they'd become millionaires. Note to self: find some corporation that needs underground explosives and give them our phone number. You know, if this house wasn't completely under the radar. Which it is.

Max and I hang out. Our conversation is careful...I don't bring up any of her Forbidden Topics. She asks me where I went, and I tell her the truth—most of it, anyway.

"I flew into town and stayed at a hotel."

She nods and lets it drop. She, more than anyone, knows that when I'm pissed, I like to be alone. She's not angry at me anymore, but something's different between us. I can't put my finger on it...I'll get back to you on that one.

I help Iggy fix a simple dinner; basically a montage of leftovers and a few dishes of vegetables. He tells me off for touching his oven, which amuses me greatly.

"Put on an apron and you'll be a shoe-in for the next Housewife of America," I tell him.

He gives me the finger and sticks out his tongue.

Dinner is a merry affair, as it always is. These five people are my best friends in the world, which means we have plenty of inside jokes to throw around and crack up about.

"Hey, Fang, remember that time with the guy that was selling the nuts?" Gazzy's laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

I start laughing, along with everyone else.

"And he was all like—" Angel giggles.

"—'You kids want to buy some nuts?'" Max imitates the Creepy Nut Man, which is the name we have given him. We flew into town one day for some more clothes, since Angel, trying to help out, had done the laundry. However, in doing the laundry, she had neglected to realize that the bleach goes into the little drawer at the top, not poured all over the clothes. And that bleach was only to be used for white clothing.

Everything I own ended up with white splotches, which kind of ruined my image.

Anyway, so we were walking back to the outskirts of town with our shopping bags in hand when this guy accosted us. And he wasn't just some normal guy, either—he twitched. His right eye spasmed constantly. His beard was scraggly and black, and when he opened his mouth to speak, we could see that he had three teeth missing and the rest in serious need of some Oral-B.

"You kids want to buy some nuts?" he had said in the voice of every pedophile, sex offender, convict, and drug addict put together, leaning in close with a bag of mixed nuts in his hand. "Got some good nuts here."

We said no thank you. Then lasted about ten seconds after leaving him behind before we burst out laughing.

Stomachs full from food and hurting from laughter, we decide that there's no better way to burn off calories than going for a flight. It's something we do most days, but the time varies. Some days we feel like flying around noon, when the sun's high and the tips of your feathers are warmed nicely. Sometimes everybody gets up at the crack of dawn and we go watch the sun rise over the mountains from some perch we happen to find that day with a good view.

But tonight, everyone has a taste for the cool twilight air, so we take off from the roof and automatically assume a little formation, as we always do.

Everything's so peaceful, and we're talking and still laughing and doing aerial stunts, but it's hard for me to keep something out of my mind.

Three guesses what.

I just could never imagine Dylan becoming a hustler. It just...well, it still doesn't compute. He always seemed so..._better than thou, _like he could have any girl he wanted (except for Max). Have any _girl _he wanted. So why suddenly switch to men? Why suddenly switch to creepy, older men? Because that guy I saw him with...he wasn't attractive by anyone's standards. I mean, muscles, sure, but he looked like a snake. Someone who would bite your face off given the chance.

Ech. Awkward phrasing.

He keeps doing a sort of dance around my head. I watch a reel of him pushing me against a wall, then flopping down on the pillows, his arms back around his head. I wonder where he went when he left. He was gone when I woke up. He must have left silently, or I must have slept hard.

Nudge tells me I'm quiet. I'm spared answering by Iggy's "He's not _always?" _

I heard somewhere that the most resilient parasite, metaphorically, is an idea. Apparently that extends to thoughts of people as well, because Dylan won't get out of my head.

Max finally breaks down her walls when we get home that night, and everyone else has gone to bed. We're watching a bad sitcom called something about a third rock, but it's on low and we're not really listening.

"Are you okay, Fang?" she asks me, biting a lip in the way she only does when she's upset.

"Yeah," I tell her. "I'm fine."

She knows I'm lying.

"I'm...I'm really sorry for blowing up at you," she says haltingly. Know that she doesn't usually apologize, so this is kind of a big deal. "I didn't really mean to, you know...I was just kinda surprised you wanted to talk about Dylan."

"I didn't mean to make you angry."

"I know...I just..." She blows a piece out of her hair, frustrated with not being able to find the right words. "You...you haven't talked to him, have you?"

I consider telling her, I really do. But...something in me just doesn't think it's right.

"No," I say.

I dream. Remember how I said I almost never dream? Well, I dream tonight, and as opposed to hazy flashes of sound and color that never quite pieces together, it's a vivid panorama that I can recall exactly.

I see Dylan, tangled in the arms of the Muscle Man, who's staring at me with eyes that have been gouged out—red blood and white flesh mixes and runs down his face like bad Halloween makeup. He stands there emotionlessly as Dylan writhes. I look down and there's a wolf, growling and daring me with eyes like melted chocolate on fire. But as I freeze in fear, it's not me the wolf lunges at—it's Dylan. It bites him once, twice, jagged teeth dragging through flesh as easily as a finger through water. Blood splashes scarlet at my feet, and it scares me that it blends in with my black sneakers and jeans. A metallic smell chokes the air. Dylan looks up, and his eyes are the same as the middle-aged man that's holding him—except for worse, and the wounds are fresh.

He shouldn't be able to see me, but it's apparent that he can—the ruined face turns in my direction and Dylan opens his mouth. _Why didn't you save me? _he mouths, before closing his eyes and giving a shuddering breath to die.

I wake up shaking, covered in sweat and with my iPod still in my ears, playing _diediedie _in my ears.


	3. Chapter 3

**OH LOOK, AN UPDATE THAT DOESN'T TAKE MORE THAN A COUPLE OF MONTHS...LOL.**

**Well, I told you I had the first four chapters, and I lied. I have the first FIVE chapters written. So I'll be uploading those and then the real fun can start. **

**Don't forget to leave a review, telling me if you like it, hate it, whatever. My marmosets love reviews. They're kind of like marmoset crack. **

***pets marmosets* **

**Enjoy!**

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><p>The images stay in my head for the next two days.<p>

I can't look at Iggy without picturing him with red flooding down his face. He's lucky he's only blind.

And I can barely look at Max, because I'm afraid of her eyes. They look too near the wolf's.

A dream has never freaked me out this much. It feels like spiders are crawling on my skin, trying to go up my nose and twitch over my cheeks. I try distracting myself with tens of different thoughts and lots of music, but none of it works. No matter what I try to use to try to get my mind off the dream, some little snippet comes back and bites me, and I shiver.

"I feel like I don't even know you anymore," Max complains. A retaliation sticks in my throat.

We fly at noon, which is good because the storm is still hanging on—it starts raining again at about ten o'clock. It depresses all of us. We go to bed early.

I lay in my bed, waiting for sleep, except for that sleep doesn't come. So I end up just lying in bed, watching the cracks in the ceiling and letting the hazy moonlight stream onto my face. I try to play my iPod, but it dies right in the middle of a line. _I'm drawn to you like nicotine._ I yank the earphones out and throw the whole thing on the floor. It's useless.

My feet are sweaty and my nose is cold and I can't shake the urge to fly. It's an urge that all of us are familiar with—the want that you can't shake to spread out your wings and feel the air get between your feathers. To feel your shoulder muscles loosen luxuriously as you take off and they stretch out. And it's not like the want for chocolate or sex—those go away at some point. You can't get rid of the want to fly until you actually fly.

So I open up the window and fly.

This isn't the type of rain that feels wet and cold and terrible; this is the kind of rain-weather that makes you want to run and jump and yell at the sky. It's drizzling just enough to feel good on my skin.

Flying at night...well, there's nothing like it, especially not when you're alone. It's like you're alone in the universe, not just the skies.

I really can't explain it to someone who's never experienced it. I guess it's kind of like walking the streets at midnight. In August, right after it's rained and when there's only one streetlight on, beaming orange light in a circle over the sidewalk. Maybe if you were to go to a tiny children's park during the night like this and swing. Close your eyes and just _be. _Maybe then you could figure out some of the feelings that rise up in me when I fly at night.

I don't have a destination, or a purpose, so I just start to wheel in a giant circle. I fly through a couple of clouds, then regret it...clouds look pretty, but they suck .

As they've been doing every ten seconds since last night, my thoughts inevitably fall to my dream, and by extension, Dylan.

I shudder down to my feather-tips. It just felt so real. I'm not used to lucid dreaming, usually just getting flashes of stuff I don't understand. It would figure that my first real dream is one that scares the crap out of me.

Flying and thinking like I am, smart Fang suddenly realizes, hey, he's not travelling in a circle anymore. Where's he going? Toward the town that he spent the night at two days ago.

What the hell, I'm already here.

I angle downwards. The night is peaceful and calm, with just the occasional breeze stirring up the trees below me. I feel like I should be tired, except for that I'm not. My eyes are wider than usual, and the edges of them feel dry.

Also, I'm hungry.

Diners in this tiny town are open twenty-four hours, in the hopes of getting more than a few wayward travellers to come and eat at their little hole. I go to the one that seems most popular, after doing a few basic life equations in my head. In general, best restaurant=more people in it. Or really just edible food.

It's pretty empty, but there's a minibar in the corner and that's busier than the actual restaurant. I look to see if anyone looks lethal, but they don't, so I let the waitress seat me in a booth. The faux leather is torn and frayed in places, revealing off-white threads and yellowish foam cushioning. I pick some of the foam out and roll it into a ball, then toss it onto the carpet below my feet.

The waitress doesn't judge the fact that I'm here at nearly one in the morning. Lots of people are, sex-hazed couples coming in for a late-night meal, glazy-eyed cops that have obviously drawn the short straw and gotten the night shift. A couple of homeless-looking people. She just asks me what I want and then brings it.

I swirl the coffee around with one of those tiny straws and take a sip through it. It's weak, but hot. There's a hint of cinnamon laced somewhere in there that makes it drinkable.

I sip the drink slowly and just think. Think about each member of the flock in turn, even dreg up a couple of old School memories to mull over. None of these help my relative depression, however.

When I breathe out, my breath is hot and smells like the coffee I'm drinking.

It doesn't take long for me to feel like I'm loitering—and like I should be leaving soon before Max realizes I'm gone and calls everyone from the cops to her mother. I take the penultimate sip of my coffee. It's gone cold by now and doesn't taste like cinnamon anymore.

The door has a charming little bell on it, and it rings when anyone even touches the general vicinity where it's hanging. It rings now with full force, and I look over absently to see who's coming into the diner/bar at an hour even later than I had.

Hello, gruesome coincidence.

If you've figured out who's walked into the B-grade diner, then you can skip ahead some. If you haven't, then read on.

It's Dylan, in keeping with the My Life Sucks theme of the evening. And he's with a man. A different man. This one is even older, with hair dyed a gross shade of black, flopping over his eyes. with watery eyes that make my own water to even look at them.

They go to the bar. Dylan flashes an ID I presume is fake and takes a seat on a stool.

And my feet. My goddamn feet just start moving.

I'm up and near the bar before I even realize what I'm doing, leaving the last sip of coffee in the generic white ceramic mug.

Up until now, my brain's been very clear about what it wants to do. It wants me to fly. It wants coffee. It wants to move me toward the bar. I guess I assume that once I get over to Dylan, it'll continue to run on autopilot and I'll figure out a reason for being there.

Nope. That's the exact moment that it decides to return all normal function and speech and restore it to my power.

"Um...hi?"

Good God, eloquent much, Fang?

Dylan's face goes from curious to angry to disbelieving in a matter of seconds; Watery Eyes looks at me with an expression like mild hatred.

"Who's this?" he asks, and his voice is annoying. Looks like Tarzan, sounds like Jane. It's obnoxious, and from the look of disgust Dylan is directing him, he thinks so too.

"No one," Dylan says, turning his angry blue eyes on me. "Stupid old flame that won't let me go."

What?

"I just...wanted to talk," I manage, which isn't really what I want at all, or maybe it is. Hell knows.

"Nice to know you're a man of many men," Watery Eyes says, disgruntled, and he pushes his ass off the stool and lumbers off, leaving Dylan and me alone at the bar.

"Nice going," Dylan says coolly. "You seem to be on a roll. Sabotaging two of my clients in three days." He sighs. "Want a beer?"

"No."

He gets one for himself. He doesn't get carded. It smells like bad grapes and gasoline, but he seems to appreciate it.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, once he's finished half the bottle in complete silence.

"I don't know," I tell him, because I don't.

Dylan looks back out the door at the dark streets, and I can tell he's thinking of the guy that walked away from him. Oops. "What if he was the one?" he asks me, but he's not looking at me. He's carefully avoiding looking at me, in fact.

That's one thing I'm certain about. "He wasn't."

"How do you know?"

That's one thing I'm not so sure about. It's difficult to put into words. "I just...you'll be able to tell when you find the one."

He's silent for a second, just looking at me. Then he finishes his beer and swings a leg off the stool. When I don't make moves to follow him, he looks back at me. "You coming?"

Apparently so.

I follow him down a side street. "Why did you ask me to come with you?"

"You owe me again," he says shortly. "A place to sleep."

The thought that I think can best be described as _fuck, _because I don't have enough money for a hotel with me.

I consider running, then discard the possibility. He'd catch me; he's fast or faster than I am. _Pull a Jimmy Neutron, Fang. Think. Think. _

Eh. Guess it's better than nothing, though I don't know how many times Dylan's slept on sand in a cave.

"I have a place," I tell him. "But you have to follow me."

Dylan shrugs and falls back, letting me lead him.

The cave at Lake Mead isn't the nicest of places, but it's the best I can do and it's relatively near here; about ten minutes of easy flying. He'll probably be pissed at me for not putting him up at a hotel like his other slut-renting clients, but—

No, that's an ugly thought. I berate myself silently.

Dylan doesn't seem to have ill will against me, and he follows me up into the air without protesting or even saying a word. I fly out front, and I can hear he's following me.

He doesn't speak for the first few minutes of our flight, and then he decides that he's stayed quiet long enough.

"So where are we going? I don't recognize the route."

I look back. Dylan's keeping up easily. With a flap of his wings, he levels himself we me so we're next to each other.

"There's a cave at Lake Mead," I explain lamely. How are you supposed to talk to someone...someone like Dylan? "It's always dry and pretty warm usually. Is that okay?"

"Fine. Sounds great."

The rest of the trip is spent in silence.

"Hey," I say as we enter the cave. It's cool and dark and wet and there are stars everywhere. "Don't...you know, don't they notice the wings? Y'know, when you're..." It's too awkward to finish the sentence. So I don't.

"I don't let them," Dylan says shortly. "It's never like that."

They get to the cave, and I make a fire with the wood from our last camping trip.

"We come here sometimes, the flock and I," I tell Dylan, who's looking around at the cave walls. "To go camping."

I make Dylan's fire, and then give an awkward little wave. I fully intend to leave the cave and go back to the flock—I've had enough of the night air, and I really just want to sleep. So I turn and spread my wings, but...

"Wait," I hear a small voice from behind me. I turn to see the orange firelight glinting off the blue of Dylan's eyes, which are upturned, almost pleading with me. "Can you stay? Just for a while."

There's a moment, just for a second, when I look into his eyes...and I see things in them that no eyes should show—pain, and darkness, and _wisdom. _Dylan looks seventeen or so, but I know that he's really only been out in society for less than three years. Wisdom shouldn't come to anyone three years into the world.

I _should _go back to the flock. I _should _get back before Max wakes up and has a complete cow, though I've never understood that expression. I _really _should just get out of here and leave Dylan to whatever he's doing.

I also really should tell him this. I open my mouth too, but what comes out instead is "Alright."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four, chapter four :D hope you guys are liking it so far. **

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><p>I wake up with sand on my face, in my clothes, in my ears, and gluing my eyes shut.<p>

The first bits of sun are starting to shoot out from the horizon, I see when I move to the edge of the cave, but this doesn't help any; I've been here far too long. If Max is awake, I'm getting my dangly parts ripped off promptly when I try to ninja-sneak in the window. Ninja-sneaking works on everything except for Max.

I don't even remember falling asleep. I remember idle, awkward conversation with Dylan, consisting mostly of "Hey, how's the flock doing?" "Oh, good, what you been up to?" "Eh, nothing important." "Cool." But not closing my eyes.

But here I am, sprawled sideways on dirt. One half of my shirt is dusty and faded. My wings are asleep. I didn't previously know that it was possible for wings to fall asleep, but apparently it is. Dylan is curled in an alcove of the cave, his hair falling all over his face, and fluttering with each deep breath in and out. I watch him sleep for a second. His face is peaceful, not guarded like how I see it while he's awake; derisive and carefully choosing what to show. He's like Max, only darker and not a virgin.

I really, _really _have to get back .

I consider waking up Dylan to tell him I'm leaving, but there's no time. So I just jump off the cliff, relish the feeling of falling, and then spread my wings and shoot out of the dive right before I hit the ground.

Operation Ninja Sneak starts with my own still-open window. A quick glance at my iPod clock says that it's just past six-thirty when I get back. Max is probably up, but she probably hasn't looked in my room yet—I don't usually stir until quarter to eight at least. I'm good. I must be.

"Fang, goddamnit, where have you been."

Oh, shit.

"Uhhh...hi." I don't know what else to say. Max is looking absolutely furious, her arms crossed tighter than a pretzel.

And she goes into absolute hyperdrive. Sarcasm becomes her defense, and she employs it in full before repacking her punch and slamming it straight back at me. "Oh, hello there, light of my life, my darling, my everything, WHERE. THE HELL. HAVE YOU BEEN."

Max is standing in my room, in my doorway, looking more menacing than Darth Vader, Lord Voldemort, and Chuck Norris put together. Her hair is a mess, and her socks have pink penguins on them. Her face is drawn in a snarl.

When I don't answer right away, she hauls me into the living room by my shirt. It's not a comfortable journey.

Max isn't yelling, because it seems the others are still asleep, and she doesn't want to wake them up. Instead, she speaks in a deadly whisper that is somehow scarier than all lab tests put together.

"I wake up early to check on you, like I do almost every night. I go into your room, and practically have a _heart attack _because you're not freaking there and the window's open. How was I supposed to know that you just skipped out? What if an Eraser had got you? What if some mad invention creeped your room and killed you? What if some run-of-the-mill _burglar _came in?" She's almost spitting with anger.

"Look, I'm sorry!"

"I don't care if you're sorry! Have you suddenly turned freaking nocturnal or something? For God's sake, stop sneaking out at night and freaking me out! What do you even _do?" _

"Just...fly around! Max, God, I'm not doing anything stupid!"

Max sniffs. "You smell like smoke."

I take a step back.

"Fang..." Max bites a lip. "You haven't ever...been drinking, have you? You know. Alcohol."

The idea is so astonishing I can't help laughing. "No!" I sputter. "God, no. I'm not an idiot."

"That's debatable," she murmurs, but she looks slightly less worried, and walks toward me with her head down, and her arms crooked. I carefully gather her into a hug, hoping that she won't use the opportunity to kick me in the balls. She's done it before.

But she doesn't. She puts her head against my chest, and what once felt so right now just feels normal. Like she's my friend who happens to be a girl who I'm hugging platonically.

It comforts me anyway, because Max is still here, still rock-solid and constant.

I wonder how I can tell her I don't love her anymore, and still keep her as a friend.

Turns out, the wondering isn't necessary.

We sit on the roof and watch the sun fully rise, and Max holds my hand in hers, playing with my fingers. Light streaks through her hair. "We're not together anymore, are we," she sighs. It isn't a question.

I consider denying it, telling her that's bull and giving her a little bit of security. But I also know that security isn't the way Max rolls. If something's over, Max wants to know when she should give up on it. And the least I can do after being such a jerk is give her at least that much.

"No," I tell her, without a trace of regret or any emotion at all. "We're not."

She bites a lip, nods, and leans against me again. Everything's different now, but it feels nice to hold her. I can tell that she doesn't mind what's happening to us. Neither do I. Everything's okay for now.

**XXX**

The flock doesn't take it so well.

Gazzy's eyes are wide, and Nudge looks downright horrified.

"What?" Iggy says in a tone of disbelief.

"You're not serious," Nudge says. "You're not. This is a joke."

"It's actually not, guys," Max rolls her eyes. "We've moved on. Chill out."

"But...we thought you guys were gonna get married or something, have like little bird kid children and stuff," Gazzy mumbles, sticking fingers in his belt. "You broke up?"

"Not exactly, it was mutual," Max says, and the same time I say "Yeah, pretty much." We exchange an awkward look and then turn our faces back to the flock. "But really," Max continues, "it's fine. We're still the same as we ever were."

Nudge shrugs. Iggy still looks incredulous, but he seems to take it in his stride. Not much fazes him. Gazzy quirks his mouth, but pulls a few wires out of his pocket and starts connecting them, trying to find something to do with his hands.

And Angel?

Angel's been silent this whole time, sitting on a chair with her knees drawn up and her head resting on them, her golden curls tied back at the nape of her neck. Staring at me. Not antagonistically, just idly, like she's daydreaming and I happen to be in her way.

"I have to go to the store," Max says briskly, rubbing her hands together and breaking up the awkward silence. "Nudge, Angel, Iggy, you want to go?"

"Okay," Nudge says. "I need more magazines."

"Thank God." Iggy makes a face. "If I have to resort to instant pasta one more time I will shoot myself."

"Angel?"

"No thanks, Max," Angel says, turning her face sideways. "I'll stay here."

Max looks inquisitive, but is in a hurry to get to the store. She gathers up some money, Nudge, and Iggy, and they leave. Gazzy mutters something about candle wax and walks out, still absorbed in his wires.

Angel stays on the chair.

"What's up, Ange?" Trying to sound nonchalant with this kid never seems to work. It's like she can see straight through you, no matter what you do. Which, with her talent, I suppose she can.

"You found Dylan," she says simply, tilting her head. She looks innocent, but I know otherwise. This nine-year-old can and will shut you down with three words.

I sigh. Looks like this is a conversation I'll no longer be able to avoid.

"You did, didn't you?"

I nod.

"And he's..." Her expression turns troubled. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Angel seems to concentrate. "And you don't know what the flock will think of you finding him. Since we kicked him out."

Nod. "Max kicked him out."

"And now you can't stop thinking about him."

Reluctant nod. It's true.

"And you want him to be okay."

Another nod, this one even longer in coming. I don't...want him to get hurt.

"And you don't know why."

I nod again.

Angel considers me for a moment, and then she gets up off the couch and walks toward me. I think for a wild second she's going to kick me or something, but she just gives me a wide smile and hugs me around the middle, even though her head barely comes up to my neck.

"Just do what you gotta do, Fang," Angel smiles when she separates herself from me. "Do what you gotta do." She pauses. "I'm gonna go fly around, 'k?"

"Mmh...alright."

But as Angel opens a window to jump out into the canyon, I'm wondering what exactly it is that I've gotta do.

That night, I can't sleep again. It's becoming a recurring theme in my life. I lay awake in bed, pressing pillows over my head, my feet getting all sweaty and gross, my hair getting progressively messier. I try listening to my iPod, but it's still dead. I've forgotten to charge it again. Stupid, stupid, I'm stupid. Everything is stupid. I'm an idiot, and so is Max and so is Angel and so is Dylan.

No, my brain thinks for me. Dylan's just bumbling through life, trying to get back what Max stole from him. And...that just means that everything's coming back to Max. And I definitely don't like that train of thought.

Ugh.

I want to see him.

I don't really like that train of thought either, but I really, really do. I want to talk to him. It's like I'm turning into his dad or brother or something, and I don't want him to get hurt.

When I finally fall asleep, the same dream plays out in macabre, horrible fashion, but this time there are two men; the original one from the first dream, and also the one I saw him talking to at the bar, the one my brain subconsciously named Watery Eyes. But his eyes aren't watering anymore; they're scratched out, just like Muscle Dude's, the red trails looking like paint in a bad horror movie. The wolf's eyes aren't visible this time, but I'm just as incapable of moving.

And when I wake up, I'm out the window. Still half-asleep and barely knowing what I'm doing, my wings stretched out and my shoulder muscles protesting.

I guess I've figured out what I gotta do.

Flying to the cave is more difficult than I had anticipated; thick fog has rolled in from some front I saw on the news. Luckily, fog doesn't hinder my sense of direction. I close my eyes and trust my instincts to let me find my way back to Lake Mead—we've flown there so much it's hard to miss. I'll have to glue my nose to the rock faces to find the cave though, unless Dylan's there and has lit a fire.

The mist is cool on my face, seeming to whisk past my cheeks like a soft ribbon. Droplets come together and form little rivulets of water that run through my hair down my temples. One falls into my eye and stings there. I rub it away impatiently, waiting for the almost imperceptible switch in the atmosphere that means I'm flying over water. The air gets lighter under my wings, cooler and more tangible. When it comes, I angle my wings so I'm traveling a few degrees north-south-west.

I can just barely see the outline of the water through the fog from my altitude. It's kind of pretty. If I was a poet, I would want to write about the sheen of the moon, how it sparkles onto the thick fog like water in Angel's hair.

But I'm not. So I don't.

I wouldn't find the cave at all if it isn't for the dying embers of a fire that I manage to catch in the corner of my eye while scanning the rock faces. Or if I hadn't heard the flapping of wings from behind me.

On reflex, I spin and ball my fists, but relax almost immediately. O how convenient.

"Fang?"

"Dylan," I say softly, suddenly feeling awkward and like I don't want to look at him. He probably thinks I'm an idiot for coming back. And doesn't want me here. Why did I do this again? Oh, God, I'm so stupid.

"Hey!" Dylan's face is split in a grin, which I can't see until he's about ten feet from me. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I was getting really bored, too. As you can see. I was out." He holds up a wad of cash that's rolled up in his hand, fitting his palm.

Out? Oh.

_I got this, _my tongue says, while my brain takes a vacation. "Was he the one?" My brain comes back and starts yelling that I'm an idiot.

"No, actually kind of disgusting," Dylan says, his eye twitching for dramatic effect. "Got paid though. I was going to come back here because I couldn't find anything to do. Want a coffee?"

"Um...sure?"

Dylan selects one bill from the roll and puts the rest in the pocket of his jeans. He smoothes a rumpled side of his hair, only to have it spring back up again. "Fucking annoying," he tells me, which surprises me. We almost never swear around the kids, so I'm not used to being able to haul off and say whatever I want, and I guess I feel like other people have the same qualms. Apparently not.

"I'm feeling kind of restless," he says. "Like I don't want to go to sleep yet."

"Me too. That's why I'm here."

I don't consider myself a particularly funny person, which is why it kind of shocks me when Dylan laughs, ducking his head down briefly and then coming back up.

"You're all right," he says. "But I need caffeine desperately. Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

**FIFTH CHAPTER. WOO. **

**It would be lovely if you guys would leave me a review telling me how I'm doing (: I'm getting a lot of story alerts and favorites and I'd love it if you all would talk to me! **

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><p>As we walk the dark streets, carefully keeping our distance, I can't help thinking that we seem to be becoming experts at finding places that are open late or all night. Then I reanalyze and determine that Dylan probably knows all of these places anyway.<p>

We end up in a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, one of those ones that doesn't let people use the public bathrooms after eight P.M., because of all the drunk people who come in needing to vomit.

And the other thing with all of these types of coffee shops is that the coffee there is generally swill.

I am not disappointed in my stereotype; just because I've had to survive on instant, grey coffee in the past does not mean that I don't appreciate the good stuff. Even Max sometimes brings home the nice Starbucks blends, just because we're all addicted to the stuff.

Dylan makes a face that I'm pretty sure that I'm mirroring as we sit at a table with all sorts of graffiti scratched into it, probably with penknives or mechanical pencils. _Bitch. Whore. LSJ wuz here. KT+ML for lyf. _

Dylan's examining it too, tracing a pattern in a gay slur, then abruptly takes his hand off the table and puts it in his lap, letting it surface only to sip the disgusting coffee, pulling a wide variety of faces that somehow strike me as funny. I've abandoned my own Styrofoam cup on the table, choosing instead to read all of the pathetic etchings in the faux wood.

The guy at the counter stares at us funny, since we're basically the only people in here who don't look stoned. He himself isn't looking too good, his paunchy frame accented horribly with bulging, yellowing eyes.

Dylan sees that I'm looking at him and subtly shifts in his chair, turning so that he can see him as well. "Ugh," he comments as he catches a glimpse of the guy, and drops his eyes back to the table. "Total zero on the scale of one to ten, you know what I mean?"

"More like a negative seven," I say, before realizing what I've just uttered. Dylan raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, simply grasping his cup of coffee with both hands like it's going to keep them warm. Yeah, right. In addition to being vile, the shit's cold as an Eraser's heart.

Dylan seems to figure this out pretty quickly, since he takes his hands off of the cup and puts them back in his lap, searching around for people to talk about. There's not much there, honestly. A Goth-looking girl and her Goth-looking boyfriend (even more Goth-looking than Max says I am, as in piercings and tattoos and copious amount of eyeliner Goth), both with bloodshot eyes and hands furtively on their pocket. An older guy with a much younger woman. The creepy barista. A few stragglers outside the plate-glass window, which is dusty and disgusting.

A ponytailed girl outside runs past to puke in a trash can. Her buddies laugh and jeer, but I don't hear them. Like a silent movie. Only a lot grosser. A few chunks of vomit spatter on the sidewalk, and her friends leap out of the way, cracking up even harder.

"Thank you," Dylan says, and for one wild moment I think that he's trying to talk to the puking girl outside the window, but then I realize that his eyes are on me. Steady and blue.

"What?" is all I manage, since we've established that I am about the most eloquent mutant bird-kid on this planet. Sarcasm copious in that last sentence, in case you couldn't quite tell.

"For the cave," Dylan says conversationally, easing back in his chair. I swear, I don't know how he can lounge so easily; even though none of the people in the immediate vicinity look very threatening, I can't help but be on my guard. It's late at night and from what I can gather, this is not the safest neighborhood.

Great. So now I can worry not only about mad scientists and mutants coming to attack and kill me, but regular street gangs, too. Of course, I could take any normal human, even a gangbanger with a gun, without even breaking a sweat, but it causes a certain level of inconvenience and running from the police.

And Max hates it when the flock gets in trouble with the law.

But that's not important right now. What's important is that Dylan is trying to initiate a conversation and I have been silent for far too long, like the ignorant, socially awkward bird kid that I am.

"What about the cave?" I ask him, and he shrugs, not in an "I don't know" way, more in a way that suggests he's about to explain.

"I crash there when I can't find a place for the night," he says, draining his coffee and making a theatrical gagging noise. The corners of my mouth turn up of their own accord. "You know, when I can't…"

"Yeah," I said awkwardly. We may not be totally antagonistic, but I'm still not entirely comfortable talking about Dylans, er, can I call it a line of work? Or is that one of those things that adults say when they don't want to reveal the real, disgusting terms?

"Anyway," he continues, tearing off pieces of the cup with his index finger and thumb. "Anyway, yeah, when I don't have a place to sleep I hole up there. It's nice. Out of the wind."

I nod. "The flock's taken refuge there more than a couple of times. Lake Mead, you know? Secluded. Peaceful."

"Yeah," Dylan agrees, tearing off another piece of the cup. It makes a small ripping sound and then flutters to the floor. "And there's hawks," he says, shifting the pieces around in a little pile.

"Yeah," I repeated. "Nudge and I flew with them; all of the flock has at some point. I wonder if they remember me." The flock hadn't been to Lake Mead in a long time. I didn't know if the hawks would still accept me as one of their own, or if they would take me as a stranger, an invader.

"They like me," Dylan said simply. "Sometimes I go out and fly with them, you know, learn their moves and such."

"We did that," I said. "They're amazing, the way they turn and the way they use those…"

"Feathers at the tips of their wings, I know," Dylan said. "I didn't even know I could move those feathers."

An involuntary smile touches my lips as I remember Nudge saying the exact same thing a couple years back. Dylan must take it as something else, because he says "What, did I say something funny?"

"No," I tell him. "Just remembering. You know how it is."

"Yeah," he says, more intense than I had expected.

A few awkward moments pass between us. Both of us seem to have run out of things to say and then I spill my coffee on the floor, so there's none of that to distract me anymore, either.

The barista looks ready to murder me, so Dylan quickly tosses a couple napkins out of the dispenser on the spreading puddle and grabs my arm, pulling me towards the door. The contact surprises me, shooting adrenaline up my spine as if I were about to get in a fight.

But no, all I'm doing is running from a fatso with a gay prostitute out into the streets at midnight.

The smell of vomit is still apparent as we speed-walk out onto the sidewalk, though the girl responsible is long-gone. Dylan wrinkles up his nose, and I do the same, our super-senses kicking in.

Thanks, mad scientists. Thoughtful of you to increase our smellage power by about three hundred percent. It makes moments like these all the more delightful.

Dylan turns to me as we quickly vacate the scene, a glint in his eye that I'm not sure what to make of. "We should go to the cave," he says, that sparkle of mischief still in his eye.

"Wha…?" Fang, you are truly the master of words. You deserve an Oscar for that performance.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"We should go to the cave," repeats Dylan, "and see if the hawks remember us. You. Remember you."

I check the clock on my crap cell phone, which for once has decided that it's going to keep up its juices instead of die at random times. Twelve-fifteen in the A.M.

"I don't know," I say slowly, thinking that I don't want a repeat of the other day's scenario, with the Attack of the Penguin-Socked Max, but then again the offer that Dylan's making is sounding awfully appealing. I remember that flying with the hawks was one of the only true pleasures that I had when we were running from the School all the time; they're the most like me out of anything with avian DNA, even the flock. They get stuff done.

"Come on," Dylan says, tugging at my arm. Oh. He still hasn't let go of that? "It'll be fun."

I stay silent.

"I will beg," proclaims Dylan, his voice too loud in the sketchy alley we're walking through. "And you do not want to see that."

I actually do not, so I go ahead and give in before it gets to that.

"Alright," I say, and I swear Dylan actually jumps into the air. Without his wings out. That doesn't last for long, though, because we take off from behind a building, out of the darkness and shadows and into the moonlight. Two avenging angels, spiraling up into the night.

I am freaking Shakespeare when I fly. No lie.

The air is cool, the fog having drifted off to the side while we had been sitting in the coffee shop. The way to the cave is much easier than it had been earlier.

"There," says Dylan softly, pointing at a wheeling set of hawks, out for a midnight flight. Just like us. His sneakers have just touched the dusty ground of the cave floor, but when he sees the hawks they rise up again, followed by my own. By some silent agreement, we cease conversation, so to better get to the hawks. I can already make out some of their faces in the dark; cruel, haughty eyes, sharp beaks, slim, smooth feathers.

"Here we go," says Dylan, when we're close enough for them to notice us.

"Let me go first," he says, pulling ahead of me. I nod, even though he can't see it, because they're likely to trust him more.

Originally, the hawks pull away from us, not trusting me, an outsider, but eventually they wheel back around and we fly in a loose formation.

It's bliss. That's the best way that I can describe it. Up high, with the only sound the rustling of wings and the steady, even breathing from myself and Dylan. The stars are hazy because of the fog, but they're definitely there, and tonight I almost feel like I could just reach up and grab one, hold it to my chest and fly off with a beacon of light.

See? Shakespeare, I'm telling ya. Something about the air up here, I guess.

"I named them all," says Dylan, in that tone of voice…that slightly self-deprecating tone that lets me know that he's not sure he really wants to tell me this.

"Really?" I asked, for lack of something else to say, and Dylan nods, slowly as not to disturb the hawks with a sudden movement.

"That's one's Nico," he says, pointing at the smallest male. "Trudy," he said, pointing out a female.

Roxy. Angela. Ty. Rex.

"What about that one?" I asked, pointing at the largest male, in front of the formation.

For some reason, Dylan blushes. I can see it mottling his smooth skin, even in the dark. "I haven't named him yet," he mumbles.

"Why?"

"I just haven't found the right name," he says, turning his face away and closing his eyes. He's losing himself in flying, I can tell. He looks utterly peaceful. The lines of his face suddenly don't seem as harsh, and he doesn't look so tightly wound…

"We should go back to the cave," Dylan says, his eyes snapping open. "We've gone too far."

"Yeah," I agree awkwardly. We break ranks with the hawks, flying back alone. The tension in the air is suddenly palpable.

"You know," Dylan says, "I can't remember the last time I did something like this, you know, hang out with someone."

I shrug, because I wouldn't know what that felt like. I hang out with the flock every day without fail. I can't _not _hang out with them.

"It's nice," Dylan confesses, and then we don't talk until we get back to the cave.

"Two," I comment, looking at my phone. "I should probably…"

Dylan looks awkward, standing stooped at the low-hanging edge of the cave. "Can you…" he asks, coughs. "Can you stay? Just for a while?"

I consider, then nod, blowing on the embers of the fire to get it going again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sixth chapter! I have almost the whole fic mapped out now, and I think I can start putting up chapters more regularly now. Much love! **

**~Fex/Angel**

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><p>It's only another hour that I can stay; I don't want a repeat of the great Ear Pulling Incident with Max. This time Dylan blocks the cave entrance; he tells me that there is a condition to him letting me leave. I look at him warily, worried as to what he might tell me he wants. For a moment, he looks deadly serious, and then his face breaks into an easy grin.<p>

"You have to come back," he says. It's so anticlimactic that I'm taken aback for a second, and then I realize that my internal voice is screaming _"DUH" _over and over again. As in, _"duh, of course I'm coming back," "duh, of course I'm not going to skip out on this now," "duh, I'll see you later." _

"I've been alone for too long," Dylan continues, still blocking the exit with his wings outstretched. "I'm not going to let you step out of my life now."

The commitment in his voice is nearly as surprising as the proclamation. I blink at him, because of course we know that I'm J.K. Freaking Rowling when it comes to articulating my thoughts. Dylan s serious about this; he doesn't want me to leave him on his own. I'm not sure why, but I do know that I can't bring myself to continue hating him.

"Unless, of course," Dylan says hurriedly, breaking his eye contact with me, "you don't want to...I mean...I don't want to force you or anything, so um, if you don't...um..."

"Shut up," I say, because his stuttering is amusing. "I'll come back, okay?"

I'm not prepared for the relief that floods his face, and I'm not sure what to make of it either, but in any case, Dylan folds his wings in, tight against his spine, then steps aside. "Bye," he says.

I wave as I fly away, and I watch him watch me. He stands at the mouth of the cave, his arm outstretched, until I can't see him anymore.

And since I'm Fang, I keep my promise. I go back, the next night I can get away, when the rest of the flock is crashing from a particularly delicious dinner brought to us by the resident housewife, Iggy. And then the next, and then the next after that, and then a few more and a couple more after that.

The flock suspect nothing. It's like I have another life at night; during the day I do the flock things we've always done, and during the day I am Fang Who Speaks With Dylan. When the sun is still up, I toss Gazzy off of canyons and count how many seconds it takes for him to get his wings out, and I tease Iggy mercilessly for the apron that he wears that just happens to be pink, which Nudge got him for his birthday. She cries if he doesn't use it, so usually he gives in. I hang with Max and we talk about what we've always talked about, minus the kissing.

At night, I fly.

Even Max is sound asleep in her bedroom when I leave tonight, hair tossed over her face like someone had taken a handful and tried to throw it up into the air. I smile at her sleeping form and then silently close her door, taking off from the hall window, which I shut behind me as I hover.

I wonder how many flights I've taken alone, at night, to this location, to see this person, already. I wonder how many more there will be. The thoughts spiral around and around my head, my brain a broken record player that never stops skipping. As if anyone uses record players anymore.

I feel crazy. Really, legitimately crazy.

The thoughts in my head are too loud. I don't know if anyone else has gotten this feeling before, but it kind of feels like I'm going certifiable. It gets bad enough that I actually clutch my head in both my hands to try to get it to stop; doesn't work, of course. Maybe it just makes it worse. I dive out of the sky and then pull back up quickly, hoping the adrenaline will spark my senses into reverting back to normal. They don't. My heart is pounding; I feel hot all over, and I wonder if I'm about to develop warp drive, because God I feel so _bad..._

But I don't. The only thing that happens is that I arrive at the cave, then land and nearly throw up over the ledge. Then spin around, sure Dylan's seen me almost be sick on his honorary home, only to realize that he's not there. The darkness of the cave is lonely and empty; I'm alone.

But that's not totally unusual; sometimes he doesn't get back from, uh, what he does. When that happens, I wait, and that's what I do tonight, getting the fire going, filling the cave with the pleasant scent of smoke.

I hear the flutter of wings; not hawk wings, bird-kid wings, a few minutes before Dylan's actually visible in the cloudy night sky. I watch for him, straining my eyes trying to make him out, and when I finally see him, I turn away, busying myself with the fire until he lands at the cave entrance, his pupils dilated and his hair a mess.

"Oh, good," Dylan says, and even though I'm turned away from him I can tell that he's grinning, pleased to see me. "You're here."

"I'm here," I say, turning around and spreading my arms in the general _here I am _gesture.

Dylan excavates a pile of bills from the pocket of his jeans; one twenty and then a bunch of fives and ones. He puts it in this little hole in the cave wall I told him about, where there's a loose rock that can be removed and put back at will. I look away, embarrassed, though I can't help but notice that the pile's smaller than what he usually brings back.

"I'm not, you know," I say, awkwardly, because while I hate talking of all kinds, some things need to be said. "I'm not losing you money, am I?"

"What?" Dylan's distracted, pushing the loose stone back into the wall. "Oh, no," he says dismissively. "I just don't spend nights anymore. Just as well, too...I'm starting to think I won't ever have any luck with clients..."

The word disgusts me, and words burst out of me before I can hold them back. "Clients?" I hear myself sputter, and I taste bile, like I'm going to be almost-sick again. "That's what you call them?"

"I mean, for lack of a better word...yeah."

"That's sick," I tell him, and I can honestly say that I believe it with everything I have. No one should refer to people they have sex with like that, ever.

Dylan's face falls, and he turns away from me, staring at the ground. "Sorry," he says, sounding more like a kicked puppy than his usual cocky, confident image portrays. "I mean I just...I just..."

He lets out a frustrated sigh and then says nothing. I've ruined the atmosphere with only a few minutes of being here. I should just turn around and jump off of the cliff ledge. With my wings still folded against my spine.

But, as Dylan usually does, he diffuses the tension with a few well-placed questions about the flock. By now I've seen exhibits of his conversation skills; he's wily with his words, weaving them together in complex, logical ways. He can make you feel at ease with just a few sentences, he knows when to play it safe and when to go for what he actually wants to know, whether to state things obviously or beat around the bush.

I hate thinking about why he's had to learn this skill. But he has it now, and he uses it without even realizing that he's doing it. Even now, he's steadily stepping up the intimacy of the conversation, going first for the standard how's-the-family gee-whiz-look-at-the-weather questions before finally getting into deeper stuff, about how we've been feeling lately and if there's anything we want to just tell someone.

I surprise myself when I tell him about Max, and why we're not together, and I think I surprise Dylan as well, because he doesn't speak for a while. He just nods a little.

"That's strange," he eventually comments, leaning back against the cave wall. We've somehow ended up in sitting positions, across from each other over the fire. My eyes are starting to itch from the smoke, and I blink long and slow to give them a break. Owls hoot in the distance; I hear a few hawks wheeling around outside, but I can't see them because the fire's too bright and it's wrecked my night vision. A couple of ants crawl around the dusty floor of the cave, and I watch them for a while, seeing them pick up a potato chip that's fallen and carry it off towards their hideaway. Super-ants.

"I mean," Dylan continues, and my attention turns back to him, the smooth lines of his face etched sharply by the light from the flames. "You two were kind of supposed to be together forever."

"That was part of it," I said, shrugging it off my shoulders like I was shaking water droplets off of my wings.

"What?"

"The fact that we were _supposed _to be together, not that we wanted to be."

This elicits another little silence in the cave, this place where I've said so many things, so many words that are hanging above my head now and jumbling themselves into different shapes and styles and colors. The fire. The smoke. It's getting to me. I rub at my eyes.

"You're tired," says Dylan, and I nod. My sleep pattern is totally screwed from all of these late-night meetings, but I really am tired tonight. Not just physically tired...emotionally tired. You know when you want to go to sleep just to stop yourself from feeling for a while?

Like that.

"You can go to sleep," Dylan says quietly, looking away from me. Then that crooked half-smile, back at me. "I won't let the monsters get you."

"Too many monsters have already tried," I respond, settling back against the cave wall. "I'm not afraid of them anymore."

And, in this little cave by Lake Mead, I close my eyes. Things will feel better when I wake up; they'll be less hazy and confusing. Things could be easier. Things will be easier, I tell myself, and I try to relax each of my muscles in turn because I can tell that I'm tense, and I don't know why.

I never know why. In anything.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I don't know. I think I'm asleep, I think I'm dreaming, I think I'm in that half-state when dreams are almost real and real is almost dreams. I don't know where I am, or who I am, or what I am.

Because fingers are softly trailing through my hair, separating the strands with nimble fingers and then stroking through them, taking care not to tangle, and the hands feel good, and I don't want them to stop but at the same time I sort of think I should want them to.

The fingers hitch, then continue combing through my hair, almost down to my shoulders by now, brushing over my cheeks and my neck and feeling so warm and impeccably there. I think I shift, but I don't know. I just feel these hands gently brushing my face, and I smell cologne and smoke, and I don't see anything but the pixelated combinations of colors behind my closed eyelids.

If this is a dream, I never want it to end, I think hazily, and while I feel like I could wake up any second I force myself to stay with this dream, keep with it, because it's not a nightmare. It's such a good dream.

The hands touch my collarbones, the angle where my jaw meets the area right under my ear, my closed eyelids, exploring chastely. Memorizing hands. Trying to remember every detail of me.

I am still not sure if this is a dream but then the hands suddenly move away and I want to cry out to my dreamworld, make them come back, restore them to my flesh, but then I feel the heat of someone so close to me, next to me, and I feel their stare though I cannot see them, and I know that I should maybe wake up now but I still don't want to. I will continue this dream, if only for a little bit longer.

And this person with the memorizing fingers shuffles, and I feel the heat of them on my face, and when they kiss me there are things I feel that I have no name for. I am nothing, we are nothing, but we are solidly here and _oh God I'm awake. I'm awake and this is still happening and this is me and this is...this is..._

I stay absolutely, perfectly, impeccably still, and I feel my breathing quicken but I will myself to keep my eyes shut tight. I am not floating on clouds, I am slumped against a dirty cave wall and I am not alone, and is this heat from the fire or a person?

I can't tell, and then I hear the heavy, regular breathing that means that Dylan has fallen asleep.

I get up. I am not in my own skin; my essence is floating up somewhere near the ceiling and I don't know where my body is. I am alone and it is night and it is so _cold _all of a sudden.

My wings. They stretch out; they are still here. I am still here. I am still a person.

I think.

I am shuddering horribly as I jump off of the ledge, letting my wings catch the drafts of the wind; I'm shaking with feelings shooting out of me faster than I can identify them. It's cold. I want to be at home in my own bed, sleeping with no dreams. I want to be under layers and layers of blankets and I don't want to speak to anyone ever again.

I don't feel like me. I touch my own hands, face, lips, hair, making sure that I am still the same. I appear to be put fully together, but that's not how I feel.

And as I fly back to the house that I share with the flock, my family...it starts to rain. The clouds open up and they cry, and I don't do the same. My eyes are dry and scratchy and I just want to close them and die.

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><p><strong>Don't forget to leave a review, loves!~~<strong>


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